


of men and horses

by westmoor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Horses, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Really just a silly little thing that's floated about for a minute, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westmoor/pseuds/westmoor
Summary: There is something about the gentle tones and steady hands of men who handle horses that makes to soothe the ache that settles in a Witcher’s bard’s heart in the first weeks of winter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 151





	of men and horses

It’s a common misconception that Jaskier favours the winter season. 

He likes it well enough, truth be told, and he’ll hardly complain about generosity shown by the esteemed and wealthy that request his presence (and puts him up quite handsomely) at courts and castles to add a dash of colour to otherwise dreary months.

But the life he chose for himself is one of travel and adventure, and as much as he revels in all the intricacies and intrigue of life among nobility, it holds little in competition with life alongside a Witcher.

As such, the first week is always the most enjoyable. Sinking into a cushioned chair in heated chambers after every night after a rich supper, letting the chafes and scrapes of the road fade from his skin and the weariness to seep from his bones. 

An audience of fresh faces, and the ability to take the sidelines and enjoy the layers of courtly drama that didn’t directly involve him (yet.)

New connections to make, old ones to catch up with.

The first weeks are always the nicest.

After that, the restlessness sets in.

His legs, not used to settling, have soon wandered down every hall. No corner of the courtyard left uncircled. The woods, if the estate has any, seems disappointingly void of fearsome beasts.

Most places have stories that he occupies himself with uncovering, some many layers deep, that turn into a song or a story of its own.

This year he’s hardly so lucky.

The lord is an old acquaintance, friendly but drab, and he understands fully why his presence in their midst was desired. The bard seems to be the most interesting thing to pass their land in the past five years or so. These people, Jaskier thinks, have altogether far too few worries.

The first week has barely waned by the time he tires of the confines of the upper class and extends his periphery to the stables and kennel.

He’s come to feel at home near a stable, he finds, though riding was never his sport. A stable is a stable no matter it’s location on the continent, the smells and sounds blending into each other from one to the next.

And then there are the people. Quiet or chatty, but earnest and hard-working more often than not. There is something about the gentle tones and steady hands of men who handle horses that makes to soothe the ache that settles in a Witcher’s bard’s heart in the first weeks of winter.

His hosts keep a good stable, as he had expected, knowing their hobby of not just hunting but breeding and training horses fit for the task. As a result, the yard is teeming with life even when the ground freezes under sheets of white. Seasoned mounts taken out for exercise, greener ones finding their footing, yearlings being taught foundations from the ground.

Jaskier takes to watching them work, in between trading stories and songs and conversations. He is at his core an _aesthete,_ and can appreciate the visage of a fine specimen atop a fine mount even if it’s not within his particular field of study.

He ends up not just watching the riders, however.

There’s a mare. A young deep red bay bought from a trader all the way down in Cintra that autumn. The head groom had sung her praises at first, practically waxing poetic about balanced structure and the ease of her gait, but as time wore on his tone had soured somewhat. 

She is, as one of the stableboys put it, a hellion.

Jaskier _adores_ her.

It has become a habit of his over the past handful of days, wandering down to the paddocks after breakfast to watch an otherwise capable horseman fail to mold her into something more agreeable.

There is little progress to be had, and the workers have already started lamenting the likelihood of her being sold on in spring, too headstrong and too temperamental to suit his Lordship’s preferences.

Jaskier can’t help it. 

Watching her huff at pressure and wheedle her way out of tension, and occasionally deer-hop her way over fences and leaving her rider in the muck, tugs on something rather close to the spot in his heart warmed by the sight of broad-handed grooms humming softly to their favourites. 

He has even succeeded in bribing his way into her good graces, armed with apples and candied sugar, a feat he’s rather proud of.

The downside to this routine is that he spends such excessive time thinking about Geralt, in addition to the time he would normally spend thinking about Geralt, that when he rushes down from the main hall one frosty morning and sees a black-clad fellow in the yard, he very nearly goes right past.

It had snowed in the night, morning cold freezing it to dust over branches and parapets, now drifting down as powder with the gentle breeze. Fogged breath drifts along a stubbled cheek, crystallizing in silvery locks.

The moment between Jaskier’s heart skipping a beat and his mind catching up to reality nearly has him going face-first down the stone steps.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, confusion warring with disbelief but both losing out to joy.

The way the Witcher’s eyes light up at the sight of the bard is enough to drive him closer, stopping just short of throwing his arms around leather-clad shoulders and drawing the larger man in for a hug. 

The relief washing across Geralt’s face at the friendly reception provides all the warmth he needs, however. As unexpected as his arrival is, it pains him to know that Geralt might think his presence unwanted and it costs him nothing to prove those ideas false.

“What a surprise! I must admit I didn’t expect you so soon, though I’m glad to see you still hale after four entire weeks without me.” 

There is a genuine question in that statement, but he has a handful of theories relating to the answer, gleaned from his friend’s disposition and the apparent lack of hurry.

“Roach twisted a fetlock just past Hagge,” he says, and something heavy settles in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. “Couldn’t make it to the mountains before the storms set in.”

“Oh.” Rifling through his admittedly limited knowledge of animal medicine yields little, but he knows the speed at which Geralt travels, and combined with the tension in his jaw - Roach is hardly a yearling. She has been a Witcher’s companion longer than him. “I’m sorry. Is she..?”

“I left her with a farmer. The one with the werewolf problem.”

Jaskier nods, he remembers it well. A good man, he’d paid handsomely with what he had. His son had been a journeyman at the time, though by now he should be a trained blacksmith in his own right.

There are worse lots for a horse to draw, he supposes. Besides, he wonders how many of Geralt’s noble steeds had earned a retirement. 

“I suppose I’ll have to visit next time I pass that way,” he says, at the lack of better comfort. The lines at the corners of Geralt’s eyes soften a fraction, and he knows it’s right. 

A thought stirs at the back of his mind, like opening a door, just a crack.

Maybe. Just maybe.

Geralt doesn’t look too torn. Resigned, if anything.

Sometimes, Jaskier figures, one just has to try.

“Well,” he says, suddenly decisive, and this time he does step up and clasp a hand over Geralt’s broad arm. “If you’re not too tired - your baggage can wait, I’m sure - and if you don’t mind indulging me, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”


End file.
